


all the things i thought i knew (i'm learning again)

by spacenarwhal



Series: we make this road by walking [1]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Emotions, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-X-Men: Apocalypse (2016), Reconciliation, Telepathy, hints of past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 01:25:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7019809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles cannot tie two thoughts together as it is, can barely do what he can to keep all the other voices at bay. The shields he has spent his life fortifying feel as though they have been rammed open, beaten from their hinges and pounded to splinters. He cannot make the fractured pieces fit, let alone hold. “Charles?” Raven’s voice is soft, almost that of the girl who used to ask him for bedtime stories a lifetime ago.</p><p>[Charles, Raven, and Erik, after the battle]</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the things i thought i knew (i'm learning again)

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this movie this morning and literally stopped in the middle of cleaning to write this. Apologies for glaring errors, I'll be back to clean this up.

Getting back to Westchester will be no easy task. The world is a mess, in a very literal sense, such as it has never been, not in the wake of Cuba or even D.C. Even that underground system of Raven’s— _Mystique_ , Charles thinks to himself, squeezing his eyes against the tidal wave of pure fear that still rises up inside him when he thinks of her, fading under that monster’s hand, at what might have happened—is in shambles. Moira, who after the initial emotion of regaining her memories has not spoken to Charles outside the perfunctory and necessary, and has said not a single word to Erik, informs Raven— _Mystique_ , Charles clasps his hand over his tired eyes, blood pounding in his temples and bites down on a groan, catches a flicker of Peter’s racing thoughts, Hanks well-meaning concern, Scott’s grief, Jean’s exhausted disbelief—Moira’s still talking. “I think I might know someone who can get us ground transport. That is, if the roads have been left intact.” Charles doesn’t need to lift his hand to feel the pointed recrimination aimed at Erik. Erik himself is a single quiet port in the maelstrom, that hated helmet a singular blessing for the time being. Charles remembers the churning turmoil he felt when he last reached into Erik’s mind—memories of a brown-eyed girl, a kind-voiced woman, a home, finally at long last a home, all of it gone, like all the others before it—thinks he would drown if he touched it now. 

“Professor?” Hank asks, very nearly hovering. Charles tries to shake his head, thinks he’s successful as he feels Hank retreat. 

Raven kneels at his side, here in a half-covered ruin in the heart of the city. The people who remained in the city have not yet come out of their homes though the battle ended hours ago. Militaries will flock here, Charles knows it, they always do. They should be on their way or else well-hidden before they arrive if they’re escape notice. But he cannot tie two thoughts together as it is, can barely do what he can to keep all the other voices at bay. The shields he has spent his life fortifying feel as though they have been rammed open, beaten from their hinges and pounded to splinters. He cannot make the fractured pieces fit, let alone hold. “Charles?” Raven’s voice is soft, almost that of the girl who used to ask him for bedtime stories a lifetime ago. 

Charles sucks in a breath, wants to assure her that he is fine, he will be fine, they have saved the world haven’t they. They are alive. They are together. Truly together like Charles could never have imagined twenty years ago on the shores of that bay. “It’s too much still.” Jean answers from her perch across the room, where she has been resting between Kurt and Scott. “The voices. He can’t keep us all out.” 

Raven makes a soft sound, not pitying but kind, rests her hand over his where it covers his eyes. The texture of her palm is unusual in its smoothness, its coolness in the desert heat. Her natural skin (she carries herself with such surety, this new Raven that reappeared in the home he always thought of as theirs. Not a ghost of the past but something else, a hope for the future that even Charles had not allowed himself to cling to in the decade since D.C.). 

His sister.

“Perhaps—” Erik speaks for the first time since they took refuge here, when he helped lower Charles on the rubble-strewn rug. “This can help.” Charles is tempted to drop his hand then, but Raven’s hand holds steady in place over his. Erik steps closer, Charles catches the soft sigh of his cape—his cape, _oh Erik_ —as he moves, can feel the winding tension in the students, in Hank, in Moira as he approaches Charles and Raven. 

Erik kneels at Charles side opposite of Raven, and Raven’s hand does fall away then. She takes Charles’ hand with hers, her fingers firm around his wrist as she draws it away. Charles is tempted to pry open his eyes then, but before he can decide he’s assaulted by a new mind. Confused and mournful and tired and bitter and— _I thought I was alone. You’re not alone._ —so lost. Almost as rapidly as it appears, it disappears.

There is still a lingering warmth in the metal that is laid to rest over his head, though it rests uncomfortably over his ears, bumps into his jaw. It is lighter than he had expected it to be. Charles breathes deeply, head bowed forward, Raven’s hand on his shoulder as though she’s afraid he will topple forward if left unaided, Erik still kneeling at his side, but Charles cannot feel him, cannot reach him from in here. 

And no one can reach him. He is, for once, untouchable. 

His eyes blink open, the world blurs, the light all at once too bright and yet too dim for him to make any one face out clearly. Erik looks haggard, older than he had after ten years buried in prison. His eyes are ancient, but those Charles has been familiar with since their first meeting, when Charles had thrown himself after Erik in the frigid open waters of the ocean. Erik meets his eyes unflinchingly, his palm comes up and rests lightly on the side of the helmet over Charles’ ear. The metal seems to shiver beneath his touch, or perhaps that is Charles shaking inside his own skin. 

“Better?” Erik asks, and Charles manages a nod, tries to speak but Raven beats him to what he wishes to say. “Thank you Erik.”

Erik’s mouth tenses and he gives them a small nod, makes to move, back to his reclusive corner of the room while they await whatever is to happen next. But alone inside his own mind for the first time in days, if not years, Charles wants him to remain where he is. He does not want to relinquish Erik yet, does not want their cautious treaty to entail any more of the distance they have inflicted on one another through the years. 

“I am sorry,” Charles says, reaching for Erik, taking his bare hand in his. His hands have always been rough, the skin marked by a hard-lived life, but it is the strength in them that has always fascinated Charles most. “Truly Erik. I am sorry.” ( _I wanted you to be happy._ Charles thinks but there is no one to hear him.)

Erik swallows, his eyes fall to Charles’ hand. He covers Charles’ hand with his own, clasps it between both of his palms, squeezing. “As am I, old friend.” Charles studies the panes of Erik’s face, glad for the silence between their minds. Perhaps Raven was right, all those years ago, when she said it took more than looking into someone’s mind to know them.

At his shoulder Raven’s hand squeezes, she ducks her head against Charles’, knocks the helmet slightly off-kilter. “I have to follow up with Moira.” She says, in command once again. Charles hopes fervently that she will stay this time. The house will never again be what it was once, but neither will they. But they might be able to make it a home for themselves yet. “Rest.” She half-orders, then shoots Erik a glance that contains multitudes. There is so much history between them, much of it bloody and uneasy, but in this moment Charles know he is being entrusted for safeguarding.

The children are watching them with their tactless curiosity, all except for Jean who has closed her own eyes, red head resting against Scott’s shoulder. She knows everything, Charles remembers, has seen everything he has ever been. Perhaps even what he might be yet. Her strength is truly extraordinary. 

“Rest.” Erik echoes, shifting into a sitting position, reclining against the same wall Charles had been propped against. He has not yet let go of Charles hand. 

“I think I will.” Charles agrees, as though he had any choice in the matter. His head is still throbbing, but it is a tolerable pain now that it is at least quiet within the recesses of his mind. The metal rings softly when he rests his head back, warmer than before. He closes his eyes. 

He is not alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Heart of the Matter by Don Henley, because I had to embrace the 80s cheese too.


End file.
